By seven in the evening, I had already failed twice as a mother and once as a daughter.
The first failure was forgetting Mina's school project.
The second was sending Jun to school in shoes that had been too tight for a month because I kept telling myself I would buy new ones on Friday, then Monday, then soon.
The third was answering my mother's call.
"Are you listening to me, Yuna?"
"Yes, Mom."
I had my phone pressed between my ear and shoulder, a loaf of bread tucked under one arm, and a basket hanging from my wrist that was already too heavy.
"You said you were coming straight home."
"I just stopped at the supermarket."
"At this hour?"
"There's nothing in the fridge."
"There would be if you learned to plan."
I closed my eyes for a second.
Around me, carts rolled past, cashiers called out totals, and a baby somewhere near the front was crying hard enough to make everyone else look tired too.
"I said I'm on my way," I told her.
"Your daughter keeps asking for you. Your son refuses to do his homework. Honestly, Yuna, I don't know how you make everything harder than it needs to be."
That was my mother's favorite sentence.
She had said it when my marriage ended.
When I moved into the apartment with the broken kitchen drawer and the leaking sink.
When Jun got sent home for fighting.
When Mina cried because her father missed another Sunday and then stopped asking when he was coming.
Somehow, it always came back to me.
"I have to go," I said.
"Of course you do. You always hang up when someone tells you the truth."
The line went dead.
For a moment, I stood there in front of the dairy shelves with the phone still in my hand, feeling that tight, hot ache in my throat.
Not enough to cry.
I was too tired for that.
I shoved the phone into my bag and reached for the last carton of milk.
At the same time, another hand reached for it too.
I pulled mine back at once. "Sorry."
"It's fine."
His voice was low and calm.
I looked up.
He was older than me, maybe by a few years. Dark hair. Tired eyes. Not the kind of man who looked polished or easy. He looked like someone who spoke only when he meant to.
And on his left hand, plain and impossible to miss, was a wedding ring.
He noticed where I looked.
For one stupid second, my heart dropped like I had been caught doing something wrong.
Which was ridiculous.
He was the one wearing it.
He took the milk from the shelf, glanced at it once, then held it out to me.
"You can take it."
"Oh." I blinked. "No, that's okay."
"I insist."
I should have said no again.
Instead, I took it. "Thank you."
His fingers brushed mine for half a second.
Just enough to feel.
He reached for another carton behind it as if nothing had happened.
I should have left then.
Instead, I said, "You were here first."
"I'm serious about most things," he said.
I hadn't realized he was answering a question I hadn't asked out loud until I let out a small laugh.
It slipped out before I could stop it.
His eyes stayed on me for a moment too long.
That was when I remembered the ring again.
I shifted the basket higher on my arm. "Well. Thank you."
I turned too quickly.
The plastic produce bag caught against the basket handle, tore open, and three oranges rolled straight across the floor.
"Oh no."
I crouched at once, but he was faster.
One orange rolled toward the bottom shelf. He caught it before it disappeared underneath.
"It's okay," he said.
"It's not okay. I hate when this happens."
The words came out before I could stop them.
He glanced at the split bag, then at me. "This happens often?"
I grabbed another orange and stood up halfway. "Enough to be humiliating."
"That seems dramatic."
I looked at him. "You're not the one chasing oranges in public."
He held out the one he'd caught. "No. I'm the one helping."
That should not have made me smile.
It did.
I took the orange from him. "Thank you."
"You've said that twice now."
"Would you prefer I stop?"
"No."
Something in the way he said it made me look at him properly again, and that was a mistake.
He didn't look flirtatious.
He didn't look embarrassed.
He just looked at me like I had become interesting to him without either of us meaning for that to happen.
I dropped my eyes first.
He noticed the torn bag in my basket. "You should double-bag fruit."
I gave him a look.
After a beat, he said, "That sounded more critical than I meant it."
A laugh escaped me again, smaller this time.
"My mother says worse."
The moment the words left my mouth, I wanted them back.
He didn't ask me what she said.
Didn't give me pity.
Didn't pretend not to hear it.
He only said, "Mothers usually do."
Simple.
Like he understood something he had no right to understand.
I straightened, tucking the loose oranges around the bread so they wouldn't fall again.
He glanced at my basket.
Children's cereal.
Juice boxes.
Bandages.
A cheap box of cookies I had already decided I would pretend not to notice when the children found them.
"You have kids," he said.
It wasn't really a question.
I nodded. "Two."
"How old?"
The question should have felt too personal.
It didn't.
"My son is eight. My daughter is six."
He was quiet for a second. "That's a hard age."
I looked at him. "You say that like you know."
His eyes held mine.
"I know."
That single answer landed differently than it should have.
I didn't ask anything else.
I didn't need to.
The ring was still there.
Plain gold.
Steady on his hand.
Wife. Children. A whole life that had nothing to do with me.
I tightened my fingers around the basket handle. "I should go."
He nodded once.
No argument.
No attempt to stop me.
That should have made this easier.
I took two steps toward the end of the aisle before his voice reached me again.
"Yuna."
I stopped.
Slowly, I turned back.
He was holding a folded paper between two fingers.
My daughter's project sheet.
My name was written across the top in thick black pen.
Heat rushed into my face. I hadn't even realized it had slipped from my bag.
I walked back and took it from him too quickly. "Thanks."
His hand lowered.
"Your daughter dropped glitter all over this," he said.
I looked down.
A strip of silver glitter clung stubbornly to the corner of the paper.
"She thinks glitter improves everything," I said before I could help myself.
"Does it?"
I met his eyes.
"No."
For the first time, he smiled properly.
Not much. Just enough to make him look less tired and far more dangerous.
I folded the paper once and pushed it into my bag.
He glanced at the top of it again. "Mina."
I froze.
He lifted his eyes back to mine.
"My daughter's name was on the sheet too," I said, and hated how defensive I sounded.
"I know."
There was nothing accusing in his voice.
Nothing suggestive either.
Still, something in my chest had gone unsteady.
I backed away a step. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Yuna."
I turned and walked to the register without looking back again.
I paid for the milk, the bread, the cereal, the oranges that had nearly ruined me, and the cookies I would deny buying.
Then I walked out into the night with my bags cutting into my fingers and his voice still caught somewhere under my skin.
He hadn't asked for my number.
He hadn't crossed any line I could point to.
He had only said my name twice.
That was enough.